


All Things

by Kisaru



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Away Mission Gone Wrong, Cold Weather, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Psychic Bond, Sharing a Bed, Stranded, Telepathy, introspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisaru/pseuds/Kisaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spock and McCoy get stranded during an away mission, the planet starts to affect Spock with unforeseen consequences, consequences which change the nature of his relationship with the doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepymccoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepymccoy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fluffy!Spones art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/190078) by Sleepymccoy. 



> Written for Shannon Rose (aka SleepyMcCoy), inspired by her art of fluffy!Spones bundled up, holding hot drinks in their hands. I have no idea why this came into my mind or if I did the two of them justice or if this fic is any good. But it’s my first, finished Spones fic (poetry doesn’t count though I can point you to it if you want to read it) so I’m proud of that at least! 
> 
> The title is inspired and the same as the X-Files episode, even though this is not a crossover fic. 
> 
> Originally posted on anon on Shannon's tumblr.

"Time passes in moments ... moments which, rushing past define the path of a life just as surely as they lead towards its end. How rarely do we stop to examine that path, to see the reasons why all things happen, to consider whether the path we take in life is our own making or simply one into which we drift with eyes closed."

\- Dr. Dana Scully, X-Files: All Things

 ~*~

The clink of ceramic against the wooden table broke Spock out of his thoughts. The steam rose reminiscent of a cloud.

“It’s herbal tea,” McCoy supplied even when Spock didn’t ask.

Spock gazed at him for a moment, his hands sought the warmth of the mug, the sensation seeping into his skin. Heat was more familiar to him than this strange, cold world.

“What,” McCoy interrupted. Spock’s eyes fell back to the steaming beverage. “Don’t make me order you to drink it.”

The sound of the chair scraping the floor resounded in his ears, McCoy’s face opposing his across the table in the periphery of his view. “I can make it an order, if that’s what you want,” grumbled the doctor. His tone expressed the exasperation, the humor, and the possible eye roll that Spock predicted would be there. Doctor McCoy, and his words, were often more complex than perceived.

A loud, fast, grinding screech reached his ears, the doctor’s face now closer than earlier, danced in his peripherals. “You alright, Spock? The tea is getting cold,” he asked, concern overriding anything else.

Spock lifted his head, and found himself in the face of those blue eyes. The hue was familiar to him, a recognizable sight in his presence. Flashes of occasions where he found himself at the other end of that look came to mind. He observed it was a deeper color than when the doctor was in a more positive mood. Spock followed the pupils of his companion cataloging any physical hint of something wrong, it’s intense focus on him.

McCoy was not like most humans, or other humanoids. Even when he possessed the knowledge about Vulcan’s and touch, the doctor adapted to find a way to maintain his tactile nature but in an acceptable manner for Spock. He could see the man’s hand reaching out to him, to assess and diagnose him in the only way he currently could.

He didn’t know why, if it was the cold, or the unfamiliar environment, or simply because they were alone, but he found himself acting…strangely. He stopped McCoy’s hand, covering it with his own, trapping it against the table. His hands were ice cold to the touch, the contrast of Spock’s tea warmed hands apparent, possibly warming McCoy in a similar manner. His blue eyes darted back and forth from their hands to Spock’s face, his eyes wide by mere millimeters, his eye brows more pronounced by worry lines. The surface of the man’s thoughts skimmed over him; the warm, smooth timbre of his natural accent broadcasting in his mental landscape. Worry, confusion, symptom assessment: it buzzed around in McCoy’s mind like the warp bubble gliding around the ship, the stars streaking fast.

McCoy set his eyes on his and his thoughts came to a halt; his words and his thoughts were the same. As the man opened his mouth, an inexplicable urge flew through Spock and he silenced him without a sound, only breathing and the pressing of lips.

It was quiet, all too quiet, both in mind and in sound.

Surely, the man was not a stranger to a kiss?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the picture above, drawn by Sleepymccoy, linked at the beginning of the work.


	2. Chapter 2

His body responded to Leonard's sympathetic reactions: the ghostly echoes of his heart palpitating fast, the chilling rush of adrenaline electrifying his veins, the pit of his stomach falling in a quick lurch -- a distant part of Spock knew these were the physiological signs of panic, fear, confusion. The doctor's mind was eerily blank of thoughts, at least of verbal ones. Without realizing it, the doctor projected his thoughts as pure emotion and sensation, a fascinating process that Spock would've liked to observe in other circumstances.

In the space of the quiet, all that remained was their breathing and the mental projections around them, floating in the air like a tangible energy. Maybe this is what it was like to have an aura, if one weren't telepathically inclined. But it wrapped around the two of them and appeared to grow the longer the seconds passed.

The moment felt like hours; the weight of McCoy's emotions, of what seemed to be a revelation clicking in the doctor's mind, gave the quality of slowing time, when their lips had been connected for 3.4 seconds. A tenth of a second brought the sweep of McCoy's lashes down and up again, the surprise dancing in his eyes. He pulled away from their physical connection, his eyes darting to Spock's lips, blinking in a mad dash to make sense of it all.

McCoy rose from the chair, his presence towering over him like it never could if Spock were to stand. McCoy's hand couldn't move from Spock's grip, keeping them anchored to the table, maybe wanting to save some warmth to himself. McCoy's eyes darted wildly, from their hands to his lips, his eyes, all in a frantic circle. There were no words, just the fragments of incomprehensible emotion bubbling up from the mental surface.

McCoy shook his head as if to make up his mind and his eyes narrowed as if all his intentions could fly out of it like lasers.

"What do you think you're doing, Spock?"

His voice was harder than he expected, is what Spock thought, knowing that is what the doctor believed too.

"Are you put of your Vulcan mind? You've been acting strangely since we've gotten here! You have barely said a word, which is surprising since you have fifty million words to say even if you Vulcans claim not to be a chatty species, and now you...you just launch yourself at me!"

McCoy's emotions were flying at him, zipping by like the warmth that was leaving the cup on the table, snatches of McCoy's thoughts filtering through: anger that this could've happened in better circumstances, worries and concerns framing a fast mental diagnosis, surprise at the pleasure of simple touch and affection, and the ache of how starved he was of such touches.

"Not that it's mighty flatterin'," he grumbled, "but you know my medical tricorder got damaged and I can't risk using it when it's low on power. I don't know if you're having some relapse of pon farr, or something is impairing your emotional suppression, or if you just decided, hey, let's just share convenient body warmth in the most pleasing way possible!"

The doctor's free hand lightly banged the table, the cup momentarily vibrating next to Spock's hand. The movement jolted Spock from his staring, watching as the man's face moved closer to his.

"Spock," McCoy pleaded, his voice soft and tenuous, his eyes intensified by the sound of Spock's name, with a reciprocal plea in Spock's mind.

"I do not know, doctor."

Spock withdrew his hand, freeing McCoy from his grasp, and perhaps himself from their delicate connection. The cold air hit his skin, highlighting the emptiness left from the retreat of the doctor's mind. The heat left from the cup was a poor substitute.

Spock lifted the mug with both his hands, the liquid on his tongue still warm, enough to fill his body but temporarily. The lack of the other's mind was distracting, knowing by now Spock normally would have categorized the tastes of the tea and what it'd reminded him of.

The doctor was still, not daring to move, poised to hear Spock speak again. McCoy had not heard his voice in over two hours, not since they've set down on the planet.

But two hours was one minute more than enough.

"Then what, Spock? What?"

He could not read the doctor, his body still towering, impenetrable. He wished again to be able to access his thoughts, his emotions. Maybe he could alleviate his worries instead.

"It is not the pon farr," he started, the doctor's shoulders sagging by several centimeters, his eyes softer. "I know the symptoms and I have not detected it."

McCoy took that as an acceptable answer, lowering himself into the chair, scooting it close. He leaned forward on the table, listening.

"However," Spock continued, uncertain how to explain these nebulous urges. "That does not mean I'm not affected by something on this planet. Whatever it's effects are, it is not radically affecting me. I am mostly still in control of my thoughts and actions. But I cannot say anything more certain."

A deep inhalation of air and a pointed nod followed his words.

"Alright."

Spock didn't address what just occurred between them, the implications still too new to figure out. And ill timed.

"That's certainly a start but hardly an explanation for what's happening. We have several hours before help is supposed to arrive, so I guess we better make the best of it."

McCoy stood up, ready to get some tea of his own. He leaned over again, making sure Spock could clearly see his eyes.

"If something changes, you better tell me, or God knows I might have to wring it out of ya."

He left, his footsteps lighter as he walked away from Spock.

The quiet remained, unsettling, and Spock took another sip from the rim.

Too quiet.

It was a troubling notion, considering how much silence was a part of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know where this story is going because I thought the first part was going to be a one-shot. Obviously my Spones muse told me I'm wrong. Maybe a tangible plot will emerge, we'll see.


	3. Chapter 3

Their next moments were spent in silence, sipping the alien tea that seemed to be the only edible source of food around. Their makeshift environs weren't much better -- it was a threadbare log house, full of handcrafted wooden furniture, if one discounted the bed. It was small, enough to house at most four grown adults. When Spock analyzed their surroundings, he speculated it could be seasonal lodging, temporary.

Strong gusts of wind whistled among the barren trees like voices of wandering ghosts. Their tricorder scans showed no one around but that was before the storm had emerged unannounced. Only the thunderous crack of snapping branches from swift breezes blared in the night.

They both estimated that outside their walls, a blizzard was raging on, blanketing the ground white. The amount of snow that accumulated in the past several hours was astonishing, even to McCoy's eyes. Their experiences with the rare San Francisco snowfall never prepared them for this. And in Georgia winters, snow at all was a novelty. They had never set foot on a planet with this much snow.

At least, there was plenty of fresh water to drink now.

The cupboards held utensils and various practical items: pots, pans, cups, bowls. It was all terribly mundane and standard. But beyond that, after searching high and low, their conclusion was that anything perishable was either gone or inedible. Except for the tea.

If this tea was the only thing of sustenance on this side of the world, then it's no wonder that there was no one around.

The storm continued on, trapping the two inside their temporary shelter. From the sounds of it, it might last all night, McCoy thought. Might as well camp out and hope for the best.

He glanced over to the bed, no doubt cold but at least a makeshift mattress rested on top of a beautifully carved bed frame. If they weren't trapped on this unfortunate planet, McCoy would've taken the time to admire the craftsmanship, to feel the smooth, lacquered wood under his hands. Time, love, and dedication bled from the hands who made it; he could tell.

Their shelter contained a small, leftover pile of dry logs, enough to light the fireplace for a couple of days. Maybe if they could cut it into smaller pieces it would last longer. Their phasers helped bring the flames to life, saving them from a frozen death.

In an earlier cursory search, Spock discovered what seemed to be bed linens and pillows. Simple things really, mostly cream, hand-spun sheets except for one large, hand embroidered blanket done in various shades of red, purple, and white. The two of them dumped the bedding close enough to the fire as they drank their tea. Maybe when the sheets were warm enough, they could cover themselves.

It was bleak and hopeless, at least for the moment.

Only the embroidered blanket and the fire spoke otherwise.

~*~

This was not the first time he shared a bed with Spock.

It seems they were destined to share space when danger was around. Images of missions past danced before his eyes, huddling in prisons with Jim and Sulu, sometimes Chekov and Scotty. Once McCoy bunked with Uhura in dignitary quarters on a world were co-ed lodgings were the norm.

But alone? No, only with others around, even though Spock had always been warm. (He'd never tell him even though the Vulcan could probably sense it now if he grabbed out and touched him.)

He never huddled so closely to him that he could count every wisp of Spock's eyelashes. McCoy could see a slow, icy shiver crawl through his companion, his mouth parted to take deep, slow breaths.

(What if he crossed the line like Spock did before? He didn't know why he felt he could trap the warmth of Spock's breath if he pressed their lips together. _It's survival, that's all._ )

"Spock," McCoy whispered. In the dark of Spock's shadow, alone like this, his voice felt delicate, tentative.

Spock opened his eyes in the dim light, and found bits of the fire gleaming in the blue of McCoy's eyes.

"You're cold," McCoy stated, the blankets rustling to open space around his body. "We're not going to survive the night like this. Come on."

Spock nodded, seeing the logic in his proposal. It was the first time since the storm arrived that he felt like himself, his mind working properly. There was no confusion, just clear, logical certainty.

They moved close together, the sheets wrapped around the two again like a cocoon, encasing the both of them. Their foreheads were touching, their breaths brought feeling into their face.

No one said a word, the arrival of McCoy's mental presence pleasantly humming around them, warmer than the fire. It was familiar and safe, and the world outside was a distant worry. McCoy stared in those brown eyes again, wondering if Spock could sense him, read him again like before.

He never got the courage to ask aloud. Instead, they spent the night wrapped in the aura of their thoughts, their eyes never wavering until slumber took over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if I wanted to split this into two parts but I decided not to after all. Not sure when the next part will come but I'm tossing around ideas in my head. I guess this is what happens when you get inspired to write something else and then bam, inspiration for your works in progress come to the forefront. I hope you liked this addition. I was tempted to make them kiss but they will again in time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it felt like it was going to be forever when I posted the next one but I've plotted this out awhile ago. I just didn't have the motivation to type it out. I wrote a good chunk of this awhile ago too and I think it could be better but I think this the best it's going to be right now. The next part should be better.
> 
> Also, there are important points to the plot in this chapter that will show up later. Which parts are for me to know and you to read, of course. :)

When they woke, the fire in the pit had smoldered to bare embers, the light of day peeked through the cracks in the wooden shutters and doorjambs. In the night, their bodies had moved closer along with the blankets, bunched like a fabric barricade separating them from the cold.

And oh was it warm, _so_ warm that McCoy wanted to sink his face deeper into his pillow, to press his body closer to that comfortable heat. It felt like ages since he slept so warmly; the iciness of this planet tried to freeze his blood from the inside.

But he did not move, lethargy still present in his body. A firm, hot set of hands pressed upon his hips and drew him closer, a second source of heat puffed onto the nape of his neck.

The heat was comforting, soothed like a balm on his soul. It had been a long time since he woke up with another entangled like this, content and at peace. His mind which had been on the verge of waking fell back into slumber.

* * *

Darkness.

Flash of light. Color. Distorted shapes that blurred into movement. Incomprehensible, incomplete.

Then, suddenly, there was a form, many forms. Shades of purple whipped past him, their features cleared in his mind. Spock watched as they fled the streets, sheer fear in their wide eyes, in their opened mouths.

Then a pitch roared in his ears, brought his dream hands to cover his ears, a discordant feeling arose in his body; he felt the hair rise from his body, adrenaline pumped in his veins, and he felt the illogical urge to run.

Before he could, the scene melted back into the snow white canvas of last night.

There, on the edge of his hearing, was a voice. A soft whisper.

Warmth.

He tried to draw closer, extended his proverbial hand in the direction of the sound.

Then only the darkness of his eyelids remained, his body became more aware of its resting state. He felt himself shifting, pulled the heat closer to himself. A rush of languorous contentment and mellow elation flooded his senses, drew his mind back into slumber.

Another set of dreams, this time the content was more pleasant.

They were back to the night before, their foreheads touched as they stared at each other. Yes, it was logical to share the bed and to huddle toward the other to conserve body heat. But was the silence preferable to not addressing what was between them?

There was something about this planet that affected Spock somehow, affected his mind on a level that was imperceptible. That was a conclusion he was sure of.

It had been awhile since he had properly meditated.

How could it be in this dream that the thought finally occurred to him? It was disturbing that whatever caused this could do so profoundly. Maybe through meditation he could figure out the problem.

The dream continued and his dream self placed the thought aside, when he could later address it on waking. Instead he cataloged what he could read in the other man's eyes as the warmth of his mental presence surrounded them.

What he saw was reflected in his own.

Their eyes scanned one another, searched for what the other was thinking.

What else could they find without saying a word or reading their thoughts?

Spock found he enjoyed the look of curiosity in McCoy's eyes when he was the subject. Liked that what he saw was confirmed in the man's thoughts.

Then the dream morphed, the environment changed around him. This time he was a third party and not in control of the dream.

It must be McCoy's dream he was intruding, a lucid player in his dream plot. A part of him must be touching his skin.

It was the moment from yesterday, when they were seated at the table. But instead of a brief kiss, McCoy drew his head closer, his free hand clutched his hair as a tongue parted his mouth open. The tongue moved against his own, the differences in texture pleasant enough to make the human moan. They continued like that until McCoy slowly drew away, stared at various parts of him like he previously had done.

The human licked his lips, wet his already moist, swollen mouth.

"Not that it wasn't pleasant, but why, Spock?"

Why, indeed? His own voice echoed back.

It was a question he wanted to answer.

But before he could, he woke up.

* * *

McCoy opened the shutters, drew the colorful comforter tighter around his body. The cold chill rushed inside, his arms started to shiver. He took a good look at the world outside.

Amidst the pure white snow, McCoy had the sense something else was lurking out there. Even with the bright daylight reflecting to a clear sky, something was amiss. Something deep that curled in the pit of his stomach, that good, ol' gut feeling, his trusty intuition. There was nothing wrong with the clean, untainted snow or the barren trees. On another world it would be picturesque.

But on this one, he felt like he was walking all over someone's grave, even though their planetary scans showed no evidence. No craters made from blast sites, no traces of radioactive elements to suggest any foul play. Just the ruins of a forgotten world, covered in vegetation.

McCoy heard the footsteps of Spock behind him, the drag of the sheets gliding across the floor. His teeth chattered loudly, breathed in deeply in hopes to calm his cooling body down.

"Something's not right, Spock. I can feel it."

He closed the shutters, wished that the precious heat would come back.

It was unsettling to him how it was starting to become normal for Spock to be quiet. Before he could dwell on the pit in his stomach, Spock spoke with more surety in his voice.

"You may be right, Doctor."

He turned to look at Spock, his eyebrow raised absurdly high. "Ok, now I'm sure something is wrong. When you start agreeing to my human intuition, hell literally has frozen over."

Spock's hands wrapped the sheets closer to his body, his head tilted just so with that tale tell eyebrow. "I have determined something on this planet has prevented me from being able to properly meditate. The only time I am able to achieve close to a meditative state is when we were sleeping last night."

McCoy's eyebrows scrunched together, his mouth in a slight pout. "That's troubling, Spock."

He started walking towards the fire, where the tea kettle hung. Spock followed after him. McCoy sat close to the fireplace, watched the flames.

"So other than gut feelings and you not able to meditate, there's nothing here that can help us. I didn't find any books or papers anywhere. The scans came up empty when we were in the shuttlecraft."

Spock sat down next to him, their shoulders touching but blocked by fabric.

"Perhaps my behavior yesterday may be attributed to my lack of meditation."

It felt like an excuse and the other knew it, had sensed something else in the other's eyes, could read something that didn't say this was a fluke. Spock remembered the thoughts from McCoy's mind and knew the truth.

But Spock would say anything if it would temporarily ease the doctor's worries or help him come up with some new insight.

"Maybe."

The kettle whistled from its metal perch, its high pitched whine interrupting their theorizing. McCoy grabbed a towel that had been on the ground by his feet and placed it around the handle, stood to remove the kettle and placed it on the dining table. There, he removed the lid and dumped a couple spoonfuls of leaves and herbs to steep.

"I'm going to be glad when we can eat food again. I'm sick of this tea." He rearranged the cups on the table so one was set in front of Spock and the other in his spot.

"If we stay here longer, eventually even this tea will not sustain us."

McCoy sighed, "I know, Spock, but something out there gives me the creeps. It looks unsuspecting but it's there. I know it."

He turned his head in the direction of the closed windows, shivered in his seat as he recalled the landscape that awaited them.

Arguing with Spock flooded McCoy with some relief. If they could do this, maybe there was a hope for survival.

"Once we have consumed our tea, I will try to meditate."

McCoy poured the liquid into their cups, watched the red concoction up to the brim, the steam visible. 

"Well, I'm not going anywhere, Spock," he blew on the cup and watched as Spock did the same.

Later, Spock would attempt meditation and McCoy would be there to have his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who waited patiently for this next part, I thank you so much. Seeing your kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions really motivated me to get some of this done. I know it seemed like it might've been never updated but it will. I really want to get through to the meatier parts of this series because there some great conversations these two go through that I really can't wait for everyone to read. 
> 
> I was going to write the meditation scene but that'll be for next time.
> 
> But thank you for sticking by me and I hope to get some more done of this so that the wait won't be as long. Things are about to get much more interesting for our guys and for the Enterprise crew.


End file.
